Exactly
by Lavender and Hay
Summary: Unlikely situation alert. Hughes and Carson, no surprise there. Mature-ish themes.
1. Chapter 1

**Just a quick note before I get going: I realise that the situation described in this story is somewhat unlikely or out of character- please try to bear in mind that everyone, even reticent butlers and housekeepers have their moments of madness.**

**Also, with regard to my other fics, I realise I'm being a pathetic updater at the moment but I'm in the middle of my exams and when I get a moment I seem to have gone brain dead. Thus, I have written this idea down before it completely escapes me. **

**Please be wary of some mature-ish themes in this one. **

She held his head securely to her chest. They had found that that was the best way they could both lie in her narrow bed. Her senses told her that her expression was calm- almost blank, even- a poor representation of what was happening beneath it. They were together, in her room, and had been for several hours now. Vaguely, she wondered what would happen if this day had the nerve to spring yet another crisis upon them and someone was sent to fetch either of them. There would be no explaining this away: it was _exactly_ what it looked like.

His arms were wrapped around her lower back. Her legs wound around his. As he muttered incomprehensible syllables in his sleep and let out a few uneven breaths she shifted, shushing him and wrapping her arms a little bit tighter. The air in her room was usually cold at night, but she couldn't seem to feel it at the moment. The sheets were warm with their weight. He moved again in his sleep; nuzzling into her skin slightly. She closed her eyes at the feeling and rested her lips on top of his head. His hair was surprisingly soft; but more salt than pepper. Not that that mattered. What did matter any more?

Needless to say, it had hurt. No only physically, but emotionally too. Having never been like this with a man accounted for the former, the fact that it was this man for the latter. She had always known that intimacy would be painful for her- for them- and that is why she had never, sought it; not actively, at any rate. But she hadn't thought it would be like this. She had imagined them ploughing along and allowing work- life- to get in the way and for them to separate: agonising stinging pain. Not bitter-sweet; not this melancholy happiness that tinged her every musing or recollection.

Nor had she expected it to happen like this, if it ever did. A shy courtship conducted over cups of tea of an evening; nothing more scandalous than the odd glass of wine. Certainly not a frantically consummated affair on the day war broke out. It had happened...oh, it had happened as he watched her ascend the stairs in a doleful haze. No. It had begun the second his Lordship stopped speaking and they simply stared at each other. It was clear then what they needed: each other, but it wasn't clear how. He left the garden party early, most unlike him. She watched him moving across the lawn back to the house: the tune the musicians were playing wringing in her ears. When she finally returned to the house, she had waited for him in her sitting room. He didn't come. When she passed by the dining room and glanced through the pane in the door and saw him watching- maybe for her. It was then, as their eyes briefly met, that it became abundantly clear _exactly _how they needed each other. She had looked away, ever shy at even the prospect of it, and began her ascent.

She had been in her room for almost ten minutes; sitting on the bed, waiting for... she did not know. The knock at the door was quiet but crystal clear. She could have ignored it, with a great rally of self-restraint or reticence. It seemed that she couldn't quite muster either. Not without hesitation the door was opened. It was never going to be anyone but him. They didn't say a word, they didn't have to. It seemed that he was waiting for some sort of permission: she had conceded to him simply by letting him be there. Her expression told him that he had to do the leading now.

And then they were kissing. Not the chaste sitting-room-kisses she had allowed herself to imagine; but kissing with a passion and her responding more fervently than she had known herself to be capable of. His hand on the back of her head knocked part of her hair down. She tipped her head back to allow it to fall back properly and he took the opportunity to move his mouth from her lips to her neck. She gasped in spite of herself.

She tensed as his finger reached for the hooks at the neck of her dress, she could not help it. He drew back from her marginally.

"Do you want me to stop?"

His voice was lower than usual. What was she ever going to say when she could feel his rugged uneven breath on her forehead? Wordlessly, she shook her head; not looking him in the eyes.

"Elsie." _Tell me the truth._

The only response she could offer was to reach for his tie and undo it- willing her fingers not to fumble. All in all, it was exactly what she had been lead to expect and yet impossibly different at the same time. How was she to know how he could be so gentle amid the urgency that seemed to have possessed them both? Nothing could have prepared her for what being with him would feel like- how could she ever have known that, no matter how much she bit her lip, at the height of it she could not prevent a protracted cry escaping not from her lips but her throat? Most surprisingly of all: how was she to know than not once before they fell asleep still wrapped together would she tell him that she loved him?

Because she did, and that, she supposed, was why she was sad, why it had hurt. To her this wasn't ever just being over-wrought and looking for comfort after the most trying day of their careers. Well, maybe she had been a _little _over-wrought. But this wasn't just her using him as a meaningless form of release- that, she was confident, was not within her capabilities. He was the sun in her Sunday morning. Her fingers fiddled with his hair as she thought it. Here she was entangled with the love of her life, however every chance that she was a meaningless... fling to him still entirely possible. A blush crept into her cheeks. She could say it to him now, just to know that she had done- even if he never knew it.

"I love you, Charles." she whispered.

He carried on sleeping. Peacefully. She was now almost clutching his head to her breast. Then it occurred to her that she might suffocate him and so loosened her grip. As his head left her chest she fell the lips brush her in a kiss. Looking at his face she saw he was in some sort of a groggy alertness. He had heard _exactly_ what she had said.

He raised himself to kiss her neck.

"And you know how I feel about you," his voice was decidedly husky from sleep.

Her voice quivered her response.

"Do I?"

He kissed her again.

"Do you seduce women all the time, Charles?" she asked- hopeless bravado.

He was more alert now and raised an eyebrow in response; caught between puzzlement and caution.

"You've done this before," she pointed out, qualifying her question.

He did not deny it. Instead he brushed the hair that had fallen over her eyes aside.

"It's been a while, Elsie," he confessed.

She did not know whether she should feel reassured or disappointed. Neither, she suspected.

"I imagine I am rather clumsy at...at this."

He shook his head, firmly as he wrapped his arms back around her waist.

"Nothing near it," he told her.

Silence: his head lay buried in her neck. Breathing in unison. Badly, so badly, did she want to ask, how _did _he feel about her. He could not see it as she screwed her eyes tightly, trying to hold the impulse in.

They would probably never do this again. She sorely doubted that anything prompting a similar mutual lack of control would ever happen again. This could be the first and last time that they lay in each others arms. Ashamed as she had been at first at her actions, the thought of it not happening again made her feel sick and empty. Without thinking about it she kissed the top of his head. She closed her eyes: if this was their last time together, she would have to try to make the most of it.

**Please don't all go too mad at me.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Sorry, I've been such a naff updater lately, had my last proper exam today and only mocks to go next week so I should get a lot better soon. This is probably _another _unlikely situation.**

The week had been hard; it would have been hard enough anyway, trying to ascertain how many staff they were likely to lose in the immediate future and to cope with the grim feeling that had settled among the rest of the staff, but it was made ten times harder by the fact that she was perpetually trying to avoid Charles. She had gone to bed early every evening to ensure that they could not meet at the end of the day as they usually did. It seemed stupid to hide from her best friend at the time she most needed comfort but she had been frightened by the possibility of what would happen if she did see - she knew what kind of comfort they would both need. And she had been right.

She was still breathless from it. So was he. Their bodies still pressed up against each other. As the chemical happiness receded shuddering out of her system, she felt a flush of sadness and even of anger. They had just made love again. No, she had made love to him- only that she knew. What he had done to her, here against the wall of his pantry, heaven only knew. Up against a wall... God, forgive her. She screwed up her eyes, trying to block everything out, but it wasn't easy to block out the cold feeling of the wall on her bare wrist or the locking of his grip on the other one.

She had gone to him out of necessity, some trivial household matter that she didn't think could have waited until the morning: an error of judgement on her part to single him out when most of the other servants had gone to bed. He had looked at her with fire in his eyes. It was then that she realised they had not been alone together since he had left her alone in her bed a week ago. All through there discussion neither had been capable of stringing a coherent sentence together. Finally they caved in. As she stood to leave he rose with her.

"Mrs Hughes?"

"Yes, Mr Carson?"

Upon the silence that followed, she turned to look at him. The fire had returned to his eyes. A gratitude for the high collar of her dress hiding the flush that crept down to her chest sprang up in her- rather foolishly, really, she could be sure that it was nothing he hadn't seen before. She opened her mouth to excuse herself but was prevented from saying anything by his lips on hers. The sheer force at which he came to her pushed her a clear few paces backwards; she would have fallen if it hadn't been for meeting the wall with a dull thud. She could have said no then, hands firmly on his face and removed his lips from hers. But she didn't. She couldn't have: not because she wasn't strong enough, although she probably wasn't, but because she simply didn't want to.

And so, there they were. They eventually straightened themselves out, they hadn't troubled themselves with removing their clothes; the urgency of their last encounter having returned with a vehemence. Neither spoke as they did so, Elsie trying desperately not to cry. She noticed his face, he was watching her with concern. She bit lip.

"I'm fine,"She told him, the tears that sprang to her eyes as she said it belying her.

He continued to look at her, his disbelief evident. _Tell me the truth. _

"Really," she insisted, "Honestly."

"Elsie." _Tell me._

The firmness in his voice only served to make her anger resurface.

"Well, how am I supposed to be?" she asked incredulously, "When we've...we've...twice? Twice! And not a word said to me about how you, how you feel... about me!"

His face was unreadable. She felt that she had to push harder.

"I mean, how do I know if you feel anything for me at all or if you're just using me for convenient pleasure!"

"Do you really think that I would do that?" he asked in a quiet voice.

"I didn't used to," she admitted, "But now I'm not so sure."

It was hard not to look hurt. That was, she supposed, because she was hurt. He too, looked perturbed; angry, even.

"Do you think this is easy for me?" he asked in a quiet voice.

"You haven't seemed to find sleeping with me too hard, these last two times." It was out before she thought. A palpable hurt this time flashed in his eyes, frightening her.

"I'm sorry." she mumbled after a few minutes of the most volatile silence she had ever known.

A few more moments passed before he spoke again.

"I do owe you and explanation," he conceded, "Would you sit down?"

So now they were back to the stilted niceties of everyday conversation. Quite a step backwards from making love. Against a wall. She bowed her head to disguise her blush at the reflection. Still she hesitated. He looked at her gently.

"I'm not about to ravish you again," he told her.

She smiled at her own foolishness.

"Of course you're not," she acknowledged and sat.

The weigh of his sitting down beside her reminded her of his weight lifting from the mattress beside her a week ago. He had woken her as he disentangled their limbs but she had kept her eyes closed; she didn't quite know why.

"Elsie," he began after a few moments uncomfortable pause, "I'm frightened." 

She was going to have to wait for him to elaborate, but found he did not. _Frightened_, that was understandable: she remembered the fear flooding through her as she quickly stripped her bed of it sheets the morning after in case one of the housemaids found them when they were cleaning. She washed them herself the next night in the deserted laundry.

"Of what?" with a gentleness that surprised her.

_Of everything._- his face screamed. Seeming to consider this statement, he rubbed his hand across his brow.

"Of most things at the minute," he confirmed, "The war mainly; and what it could do to this house and the family, and us, the servants. And _us._"

She raised an eyebrow at the latter.

"I wasn't aware that there particularly was an "us"." It sounded rather more dry than she'd intended it to.

"How can you say that?" he questioned incredulously, "After the last two times we've be alone together for more than ten seconds?"

"Quite easily," she countered swiftly, "When we've followed our encounters with such overt affection."

The sarcasm was rife and she meant it to be. Another memory crawled its way into her consciousness: hearing his voice at the door of this very parlour one morning that week and all but throwing herself into the next doorway to avoid his gaze. The remark seemed to have made the desired impact: he looked decidedly stung.

"I don't," he continued carefully, "Go about showing my feeling particularly well, I grant you. Especially when they're strong."

She didn't know what to say, probably because she had no idea what he was saying to her. He seemed to be waiting for a response though, and so she asked him:

"What are you saying, Charles?"

His breathing was deep and rhythmic.

"I'm trying," he told her, "To tell you that I love you." 

It would not have surprised her if her jaw had fallen out of its socket, but she managed to control herself. Instead, she felt tears prickle in her eyes. His expression, having so recently be furrowed and clenched was now plain. And honest. And tense. It occurred to her that he probably had no idea why she was crying.

"You never said," she whispered by way of an explanation.

The look he gave her almost made her completely lose control of herself and bury her face in his shoulder.

"I'm saying it now."

_Oh, thank God _every fibre of her being seemed to chant. It was too late to stop the solitary tear on her cheek. Tenderly, she took his hands in hers, wrapping their fingers together. Oddly, it felt a hundred times more intimate than anything they'd done up till then. There was still a tension: he was waiting for her to speak. Instead she leant in close to him and rested her head inside his shoulder and lay against him. They stayed like that for a long while. Finally:

"I'm in love with you, Charles."

Silence, then:

"I'm glad."

A kiss on the head.

"Will you go back on your word?"

He seemed affronted, and rightly so.

"Elsie, I can't believe that...-!"

Then he realised that she was giggling.

"What's so funny?" he demanded, the imperious butler back in charge.

"I was talking about your word when you said you wouldn't ravish me again."

He relaxed, gradually. She couldn't help but grin at him.

"You are a wicked and wanton woman, Elsie Hughes," he informed her.

She laughed again, Miss O'Brien and Mrs Patmore would have a field day if they ever knew such a statement had been uttered.

"But you'll go along with it, and humour me anyway?" she finished hopefully, turning to sit facing him, still clasping his hands.

"No," he told her firmly, "But perhaps if you marry me."

_Fair deal_, the voice in her head said. No, this was serious. She looked at him, he seemed to realise it too, there was no hint of teasing in his expression.

"What happened to being illicit?" she asked, raising an eyebrow.

"I got sick of having to avoid you."

_Amen to that._

"And you're sure?"

"I just asked you, didn't I?"

_Yes, true._

"Yes, then."

**I am absurdly matrimonial. Probably one more chapter. Please review.**


	3. Chapter 3

Thankfully, everyone else had left the bottom floor. They knew as they did briefly leave the pantry in a half-hearted attempt to leave for their own beds for the night. Neither of them made it as far as the first stair. He fumbled the key in the door, just in case. Alone now and each other's.

None of their haste was there this time, a sense that there was suddenly all the time in the world seemed to have opened up to them and it was like really seeing the sky for the first time. At first they only kissed, and not fiercely as they had done before: kissed each other for the kisses and not as some twisted formality. That was the last point at which a bolt of lightening could have separated one from the other.

Next they were lying down and they were lost to each other. No going back and no remote need to either. Suddenly this wasn't a scandal any more. Because they were married to one another, in all the ways that possibly mattered. The commitment was paradoxically the most pure freedom either had ever known. Foreheads resting on one another as they kissed. Hooks undone, tie unravelling.

His hands were in her hair.

"Charles."

Kiss on the jaw. He was listening.

"Never leave me."

"Never."

They lay there on the settee, having removed most of their clothes, looking at each other. It occurred to Elsie how shy she felt under his eyes like this; which was ridiculous in itself. But this wasn't like it had been before: it couldn't be if it tried. Perhaps it showed in her face.

"You're so beautiful." he told her.

And she felt it; his words made her feel it. She reached out and brushed his stomach with her hand almost tentatively. In spite of herself, she let out a half-laugh.

"This is the slowest we've ever done this." she pointed out.

"I promised not to ravish you again."

"I'll let you off this once."

He chuckled and raised himself so he was above her. A kiss at the base of her neck. Finger intertwine.

* * *

Later, much much later they are still lying together. Much the same as they did before, but, she reminds herself with the twitch of a smile that kisses his ear, so differently. The settee is wider than her bed, for one. The prospect of never being left for a lifetime was rather an inviting one, she found. He had told her again, just in a whisper but it spoke more loudly than if he had bellowed it; it was all he had been capable of at the time. She cradled his head to her chest. She hardly felt his weight although he was lying on top of her.

Not long after he stirred. Fully awake this time, no groggy over-hearings or discussions so truthful but brief that her heartbeat became painful. Only them, holding each other and showing no inclination to let go. _Exactly _where they both should be.

**End.**


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